


Kingdom Come

by Synchron



Category: Devil May Cry
Genre: Creampie, F/M, Female Ejaculation, Multiple Orgasms, Overstimulation, Riding, Vaginal Sex, sub!Credo, triggered sex, we just call Credo's Angelo form a DT right?
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-16
Updated: 2021-01-16
Packaged: 2021-03-14 08:27:45
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,521
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28792434
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Synchron/pseuds/Synchron
Summary: Let salvation flowAs your people prayLord we long for moreLong for more
Relationships: Credo (Devil May Cry)/Reader
Comments: 4
Kudos: 44





	Kingdom Come

**Author's Note:**

> So there I was yesterday, mashing my fingats against my keyboard in some sort of attempt to work on my Spardaverse entry for next month, when everybody wanted to be horny.
> 
> So then I thought “well fuggit, I’mma be horny too 😤” and now here I am with Credo Angelo porn because I’ve written SDT sex for Vergil and even Dante, but not for my boi Credo??? That is a crime against Synchron!!!!!!!
> 
> This was supposed to be a ficlet at best, just something really quick to get it out of my system, but I was stupid to think I could contain it. Might bold of me to assume I can shut up about Credo Angelo, even when I objectively want to.😔
> 
> ANNNNNNNNYWAYYYYYY. Credit goes to Muzz for swooping in with yet another fic title save, I genuinely don’t know what I would have called it if she didn’t come in and save my life. 😭🤣 Up until that point, it was still called “I wanted cummies” in my gdocs skdjhf
> 
> Pls enjoy!!!!! 💖💖

"A-are you sure?"

Though tinny and somehow scratchy, Credo's voice when he's like _this_ has always been pleasant to your ears. The first time you saw his Angelo form, it stole your breath away. In comparison to anything else you'd seen with the label arbitrarily slapped upon it; the Biancos; the Altos; and even sketches of the infamous Nelo himself, Credo is _truly_ divine. With pristine white feathers, and a demeanour that exudes the pride he carries effortlessly upon his back, there was nothing else to call him _but_ angelic.

At least until you convinced him to fuck you like that.

Mitis Forest is a soothing backdrop to your exploration of his Angelo form. The sun shines high above, and the wind smells faintly of early blooms. And most importantly - the only thing either of you are thinking about - you don't need to be worried about being seen. Or heard. It's just him and you for miles.

He sits beneath you, half leaning, half lying against a tree, gasping and stammering senseless words while you play with his cock; hard, swollen, and already slimy with precum. Neither of you were sure if he _had_ one like this, but as he ate you out, tasted you with sharpened senses that made unknown colours explode in his vision, you both discovered that the gold plate at his crotch was not just for show, but hiding something thick and heavy. It's sensitive to your touch, your words, the mere sound of your voice, but Credo has always been that way; the hard demeanour of the Order's last Supreme General crumbling to dust with nothing but a gentle squeeze of your hand and a breathy whisper in his ear. You've spent the last hour acclimating to this new shape of him - purple and bulbous, with golden conduits running its length. He's sensitive in all the same areas, still weak to an emphatic squeeze to the head, still writhes when you lick a broad strip up the underside.

Perhaps the only difference is the intensity of his reactions, where he would only squirm, he now bucks. Where he would have gasped, he now whines. Heightened perception is not the only perk his body affords, and you've taken great care in learning where his limits are, urging him right up to the very precipice before you pull your hand away

"I'm positive," you reassure him, answering his question from what feels like an age ago. You thumb at the spongy, flared head of his cock as you talk, digging the pad of your thumb right into the slit. Another burst of precum oozes out from beneath it, and when you lift it away, a drooping, heavy string follows. You collect as much of it onto your tongue as you're able, sucking your entire thumb into your mouth and humming when a tingly, salty flavour overcomes your senses. Between the two of you, his cock twitches again, his entire body - so sleek, but so powerful - jerking with a muted pleasure at your perceived delight. His eyes focus on your thumb sliding out from between your lips, catching how they glisten with a coat of your saliva. He's familiar with what that feels like, the puckering of your lips, the insistent lave of your tongue.

He swallows.

"I just hope you'll fit. It'd be a shame to waste even a drop of this." You emphasise your meaning with one last pump of his length, smiling when he shudders beneath you, lips parted to puff humid, sticky breaths into the air.

You brace one palm on his solid chest as you adjust your position in his lap. Though his waist is slender, your thighs only _just_ able to straddle him, he's nearly double your height and breadth, and infinitely stronger. But far gone as he is, breathless and far too eager, you smile when one of his hands finds your waist to help lift you as you line up the tip of his cock. You press it against your clit, teasing, slowly easing it along your slit in deliberate motions, listening to him muffle his own pleasure, and feeling beneath your hand, still propped against his chest, the way it expands and contracts on every breath. His heart hammers just beneath, a wild pace that translates into an electricity you can feel in the air itself. You feel a faint pressure around your waist where his fingers dig into your body, gripping you a little harder to nudge his cock a little deeper against you. Not far enough to penetrate, but insistent enough to get his point across; he doesn't want to wait anymore, and neither do you.

With his guidance, you situate yourself above his cock, right at your entrance, letting it sit there, and only ever just _there_ , only barely nudging past your slick folds. Credo makes a strained noise - a deep, rumbling trill that dissolves into a hiss. Just this much, just the very tip, and he's about to burst from the pressure of the anticipation alone. But he doesn't rush you, bites back every urge to tighten his hold on you to thrust up into your molten heat. He could do it so easily too. It would take only a fraction of his strength to flip you over and hold you down, and perhaps even less effort to slide inside you all the way to the hilt; he knows precisely how wet and wanting he'd left you with his mouth. Yet the sight of you propped above him, with your legs spread so impossibly wide across his hips, and the sunlight illuminating the outline of your body, is easily the much more enticing alternative.

You could _only_ ride him for the rest of your time together, and it still wouldn't be enough.

"Are you ready?" You ask, your voice laden with a crude cocktail of anticipation and excitement, and spiked with just enough of a coy undercurrent to make him groan.

" _Yes_." He really did try to not sound desperate, but he knows by the playful spark in your eyes that he'd failed. Credo goes to defend himself, but the words die on his tongue when you finally sink down onto him. The heat of you melts all thought away, and what comes out instead can only be called a whine. His back arches, chest puffing as he sucks in a breath, afraid to move any further than that for fear of losing the final shreds of his restraint. You're painfully slow in sheathing him, your thighs tensing, straining as you lower yourself into him inch by inch. It's a stretch, a gentle burn that's somehow both numb and tingling at the same time. And it's hot. So, so hot. Almost searing.

And he's still only half sheathed.

"Tight–" Credo rasps, feeling his pulse begin to race, his shredded coherence not far behind.

"I know…" you reach one hand down between your legs, your fingers wrapping around the base of his cock, no doubt lonely from the lack of attention. You give it a light squeeze, massaging gently, applying pressure to the glowing golden veins that course up its length, "you're just so fucking big– god, Credo, you're perfect."

You feel his body tense beneath you at the praise, his claws digging into, then piercing your skin. A light, a gust of heat flares off him in a singular burst as that electricity lingering in the air finally ignites, and suddenly you can feel his cock pulse under your fingers, throbbing in an erratic rhythm as he cums. Early, but no less fervent. Warmth spreads deep within you, the feeling sticky and vaguely heavy as it settles low in your gut. You have to grit your teeth to stifle a moan, resisting the urge to rub and flick at your clit to join him at the peak of pleasure, grounding yourself with the feel of his cock pulsing in your hand, dumping an almost obscene amount of cum. It leaks from within you, oozing thick strands that coat your fingers and seep into his feathers, and when it begins to subside, when the time between each twitch and throb gradually lengthens, you feel him relax.

"I'm sorry…" he begins, but you cut him off.

"Don't be. Not yet."

Because you're not finished. Far from it.

You swallow down another moan, and let gravity and the generous layer of his cum guide his cock the rest of the way, stretching and filling you until you swear you can feel the head of his cock nudging the base of your throat. He curses, just a singular, groaned ' _fuck_ ' that makes you laugh - an airy noise, as if you're out of breath. And when he's so far, so impossibly deep inside you, you may as well be.

"Language, Credo." 

He grunts his response, his eyes, half lidded, glued to the prominent ridge his cock has formed inside your abdomen. He thumbs at it gently, groaning again at both the sight and the pleasurable feedback of his own touch, muted as it may be. It's a wonder he can feel it at all over your silken walls, clinging so tightly to him that he may cum again just from thinking about it.

In fact he throbs once, jolts from the electricity of it, sharp and so raw.

And fuck, so wet, too.

Wet, wet, _wet_.

"Are you going to cum again?" Your voice is so playful, even though you're impaled on him, spurring him on with a slow grind, a slow roll of your hips that makes his head spin when he hears a sticky, wet squelch of cum as it squeezes out of you; a feat in itself when you're sealed so tight around him. "So soon?"

Oh how you love to taunt him, to watch him fray slowly at the edges, and then unravel all at once, falling apart, completely undone by your face and voice and words and sweet little cunt.

Fuck, you're just so _tight_ –

You moan, more a delighted squeal when you feel another burst of heat inside you, so filling that you're already beginning to bloat. You're losing yourself to the delirium of it; the sheer size of him lying helpless beneath you; the sheer size of him inside you; the fact that he's already cum twice and all you've done is sheathe him to the hilt.

He murmurs incoherent words, utters mere sounds, rumbles low snarls that shake the leaves above when you actually begin riding him. It's sinfully easy; the journey from base to flared tip an easy glide when his cum paves a silken path. But there's a very particular point, about halfway through each stroke, where the head of his cock nudges at a certain spot inside you that makes your thighs quiver and falters your pace. You lean forward a little, anchoring more of your weight against his chest as your hips roll, driving his cock into it on every thrust with unsurprising precision; when his cock is this thick, the tip shaped perfectly so, it's impossible to miss. Your pace is erratic, but you find that spongy place within you on every stroke, nudging until your vision begins to blur with tears.

And then it's your turn to curse.

"Fuck," the first one is the most intelligible, but from there it quickly devolves into a slurred mess, "fuckfuckCredoyesfucg–"

Words trail off into a babbled litany of sobs and moans from then on, more noises than recognisable words. Below you, Credo is similarly frantic, returning your fervor with shy thrusts, knowing almost on instinct where to stop to hit that point that makes your eyes roll and your cunt squeeze down around him. His breaths release in shuddered gasps, lost in the frenzied movements of your hips, mind swimming, floating in the very essence of you. He feels, with an acute awareness, like exposed nerve endings, every flutter of your walls. Each tight contraction melting away the remainder of his inhibitions until he's fucking into you as deep as you'll take him.

His hand grips at your waist, lifting you with ease and dropping you back onto his cock on every upward thrust. It splatters that sweet cocktail of your slick and his seed onto your thighs, your pelvis, even as far as his chest, the heated mixture rolling off the sides and into his feathers. His body keeps jerking every time he bottoms out inside you - sometimes his wing stretches out, sometimes his tail flicks beneath him, sometimes his back tightens and arches - the oversensitivity somehow addicting in its own right, straddling the thin line between maddening and enslaving. 

He barely recognises the telltale signs of your own peak, knowing it's coming only because your voice begins to pitch, higher and higher to match the intensity of your motions against him. His feathers cushion your thighs, but everytime you spear yourself upon him, it's accompanied by a wet slap and a sticky squelch, splattering more milky cum over skin and stained feathers. But there's something else too, something that makes your body rigid in his hold, quaking with tremors as if your very breath is being forced from you. When you cum, a long, drawn moan of something that sounds like his name is torn from your lips. It's the rigidity of your entire body that's keeping you from collapsing atop his chest, your arm still propped at the base of his ribs, hunched over and puffing soundless gasps as you ride out your high. But there's a secondary pressure building within you, stoking a fire, hotter and higher, on every perfect, filling thrust. It bursts with another pitched squeal from you, the pressure releasing in a clear spray.

Neither of you even realise you're squirting, the liquid merely adding to the wet mess you're leaving behind on his body; you're already lost, and he can only think of the way you clench and squeeze. Rapturous and hypnotic in its beat, milking from him a third load of cum, not as voluminous as the first two, but somehow even more intoxicating. Even more euphoric.

Deliverance has never felt this good.

Never will again.

You're breathless and weak when you come to, blinking out of a delirious fugue to a contented rumbling coming from beneath you. It sends pleasant vibrations thrumming up your body, warming you all over again but in a subtly different manner than the damp heat of his seed.

"Are you okay?"

His ears twitch, perking at the sound of your voice. He registers the words, but it takes him a moment to answer.

"Yes," he finally replies, "I'm fine."

"Good. I'm glad." You smile down at him, but not gently, not mildly. It accompanies a narrowing of your eyes, almost predatory in nature. You lift off of his cock, pulling out almost all the way…

...only to ease yourself back upon him with a mutual enthusiasm. Credo readjusts his grip on you, smears some of the blood his claws coaxed to the surface into your skin, shifts slightly beneath you, and stokes the flame anew.


End file.
